


Be Okay

by TheLocket



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Cute, Gay, M/M, Memory, Music, Panic Attack, Romance, Sex, Song - Freeform, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:51:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1480285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLocket/pseuds/TheLocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A song on the radio helps Bucky Barnes remember who he is. With some help from Captain America, everything will Be Okay. One-shot.</p><p>(Stucky, Cap 2 spoilers, tw: homophobia, panic attacks, and sex.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Okay

They keep the radio playing at all hours in Observation Room H. No one can stand the silence and no one can agree on a radio station, but bad music is better than the stale silence. And Steve likes to think it helps.

He doesn't know the song — he's never heard it before, and that's true of most songs he hears on the radio — but he likes the beat. The up-tempo guitar strumming, the snare hits.

The noise is tinny and small in the big room, echoing off the bare walls and clean counters. They've had to keep Bucky in this room and Steve is only one stupid enough to keep visiting, even though he knows it usually ends with broken bones and, one time, a ruptured spleen.

But this song is nice. He bobs his head to the beat. He taps his fingers along with it, hands hitting the knee of his folded leg. He sits comfortably, relaxed.

_Fresh cut grass, one cold beer. Thank the Lord, I am here and now. Here and now._

He looks over at Bucky — James, he corrects himself, as if thinking the wrong name could set him off — who is sitting in his chair in the corner, sipping coffee and scowling. He does this too frequently, Steve notes, the coffee and the corner and the scowling.

_Summer dress. Favorite park. Bless your soul, we are here and now. Here and now._

At the words, Steve is smiling without realizing it — he only catches the expression when he feels his eyes crinkling. And then, because Bucky – James — looks up, he has to arrange his face into something more neutral.

"Can you turn this garbage off?" Bucky asks, harshly. It's the first time he's spoken in three days, so Steve doesn't know quite how to respond.

_Can't complain about much these days. I'll believe that we'll be okay. Oh, oh oh..._

"I think it's sort of nice," Steve replies lightly, smiling a bit.

Bucky grumbles something and Steve sees his hand flex into a fist, the knuckles going white and straining against the handcuff. The coffee sloshes, dangerously close to spilling.

"B-James," Steve says warningly.

"Change the song," he growls, yanking at the restraint. The other half of his body is still, empty. They had to remove his metal arm when they first picked him up in Hong Kong. He hasn't asked for it, but Steve can tell how much he misses it, how it hurts. How it makes him feel vulnerable, powerless.

He still doesn't know what does it — the little things that trigger him, that set him on edge. Calling him the wrong name. A certain type of pretzel. One time Natasha sneezed and that was all it took.

_We're screaming out, I believe we'll be okay._

Last week, Steve had called him Bucky and ever since then, Natasha's insisted they keep him shackled to the wall. She said it was because it was hard to get blood out of Steve's shirts, but he knows that she doesn't like seeing him getting hit, especially since he refuses to fight back.

Still, even if it hurts him, he can't stop _liking it_ , being glad to just _see_ Bucky. To just be able to sit in a room across from him.

Even if it's just to watch him scowl and sip coffee.

_Fireflies after dark. Bless your soul, we are here and now. Here and now._

Steve doesn't even flinch as the coffee cup flies into his chest, the hot liquid burning his chest as the glass shatters and the shards of ceramic cut him.

He knows he has to say something now, or do something. So he gets up, slowly, and walks over.

_I'm wide awake. So what's the point of dreaming? When your life is great, celebrate the feeling. Celebrate the feeling._

Bucky is staring at him from his corner. He's moved into some sort of crouched position, either expecting an attack or ready to pounce.

He looks terrified, but that's better than the way he looked when Steve first saw him: empty, cold. He still isn't speaking much, but in some twisted way it's better to see some part of Bucky. Steve just wishes that Bucky didn't have to feel so confused to feel alive, to feel human.

_Can't complain about much these days. I believe that we'll be okay._

From the moment Steve places a hand on Bucky's shoulder, he can feel him shaking. Tremors wrack his body; his teeth are almost chattering. Steve can see the erratic rise and fall of Bucky's chest, the way his eyes jerk around the room.

He kneels and slowly takes Bucky's head in his hands, holding his gaze to him. His eyes are wild.

"We're gonna be okay, Buck," he repeats.

Steve can feel Bucky's head jerk in his heads, shaking his head resolutely — no — and then wildly — no, no, no.

"Stop calling me that," he says, and his breathing is strained like he's run up a flight of stairs, faster and faster. He's almost hyperventilating.

"No," Steve says with a sad smile. "I'm not going to. I... I don't think I can."

The up-beat guitar strumming, a cadence of a few piano notes. Bucky's labored breathing.

"Let go of me," Bucky says, and it's hard to understand, because his lungs are working so hard just to breathe. But Steve doesn't. He knows that he's grounding Bucky, keeping him from tottering off the edge of another panic attack, and that Bucky knows it too.

And the talking — that's grounding him too. Keeping him from another terrifying memory, keeping him from getting stuck in his own brain.

Steve leans in closer, sliding on his knees until he's up against Bucky's chair.

"I'm right here, Bucky," he says.

"What," Bucky spits out, stuttering. "what, are you going to kiss me?"

He laughs hollowly, wheezing. It sounds crazy and _he_ sounds crazy — and he's still shaking, his eyes wild, cheeks flushed.

"Only if you want me to," Steve replies with a careful smile, and he feels his cheeks go a little pink at the idea.

Because he does want to. He's wanted to kiss Bucky again ever since they kissed for the first time in London. And he's wanted to talk about it for years, since that first Dodger's game and that spinning ride at Coney Island. It doesn't feel like it ever stopped spinning.

_Can't complain about much these days. I believe that we'll be okay... oh, oh, oh._

But something in his words has gotten through to Bucky. His eyes are locked on Steve and they look less hunted. His breathing slows.

"So that really happened?" Bucky asks, stumbling over the words as he fights to slow his breathing. "That-that just isn't some insane hallucination they planted in my brain? Not some sort of... of ridiculous..."

He trails off and Steve sighs.

"No," he says, "that really happened." And then, with a crooked smile, eyelashes fluttering: "I remember it too."

Bucky laughs hollowly, looking around the room.

"Great," he chokes out. "Not only am I some... some freak with a missing arm who goes around assassinating and torturing people... No, I've gotta be a  _fuckin' fairy..._ "

Steve flinches at the word.

"We were more confirmed bachelors," he hedges, trying not to be offended. "And it's not like anyone really cared that—"

"That we were two men making googly eyes at each other, two men macking on each other, or two men who  _loved—"_

At these words, Bucky shoots a look at Steve and — too late — Steve realizes that he's just gasped.

"Sorry," Steve says quickly, mentally reminding himself to shut his gaping mouth. "You just never said..."

Bucky scowls.

"Great," he snaps, his voice harsh. "Perfect. This is swell!"

Steve slowly releases Bucky's face, leaning back on his ankles.

_We're screaming out. I believe we'll be okay._

"Would you like me to leave?" he asks, feeling stupidly shy, stupidly offended. He knows that Bucky has to deal with who he is, that he has to go through all that confusion and pain and hurt... but this is the sort of lashing out from Bucky he just can't stand. Never once did Bucky regret his feelings for Steve. And watching Bucky unravel like this feels unfair, in a disturbingly intimate way. It's like he's watching Bucky dress himself, or make himself out of his own memories.

The idea that he could love him or despise him for what it means about his own orientation... it makes his head swim, a pressure in his chest squeezing at his heart and lungs.

Bucky sighs.

"No," he admits, and all of a sudden he seems to go limp in his chair, like a puppet whose strings were all cut at the same moment. "I... feel more comfortable... when you're around."

"A familiar face," Steve says with a small smile.

"No," Bucky says, avoiding Steve's eyes. He stares at the faded knee of his pants, at the lineoleum floors, at the handcuff holding him to the wall. And then, defiantly, he looks right back at Steve: "It's more than that."

_Can't complain about much these days. I believe that we'll be okay. Oh, oh, oh..._

Steve stands and brushes back Bucky's hair, off his face. It's damp with sweat. And Bucky stares up at him and he looks like a child.

"Steve..."

_Oh, oh, oh, oh..._

Before either of them have time to second-guess themselves, Bucky stands and presses his lips to Steve's. Shackled to the wall as he is he can't do much else, but Steve's hands are there, cradling his head, on his back pressing Bucky to him.

_We'll be okay... oh, oh, oh, oh..._

For a moment it's exactly like that evening in London, hot and heavy against each other, feeling so complete with their bodies pressed against each other and their mouths searching, pressing, as if getting even a little bit closer was necessary, as if it caused them physical pain along every plane of their bodies that wasn't touching.

And Steve doesn't even stop to question when there's a hand at his lower back, pressing him closer, holding him just a bit closer. He needs to be closer.

All too soon, Bucky breaks away, leaning his forehead against Steve's cheekbone, panting.

"Oh god, Steve," he murmurs.

Steve's hands find Bucky's jawline and support his head, putting space between them so they can lock eyes.

"Was that okay?" he asks.

"Jesus," Bucky pants. " _I_ kiss you, _I_ grab your ass, and you ask me if it's okay?"

A smile ghosts along his lips and he half-heartedly punches Steve in the arm.

"You're a punk," he mutters.

"Jerk," Steve replies, and he can't stop himself from pressing his lips to Bucky's hairline. His arms are wrapped around Bucky again, holding him to him.

_Fresh cut grass. One cold beer. Thank the Lord I am here and now. Here and now._

Bucky breaks off to laugh.

"What?" Steve asks.

"That fucking song," Bucky says. He shakes his head.

"Tony must've put it on repeat or something."

"Or something," Bucky laughs. He sighs, and then, by way of explanation: "It was the way you were looking at me."

"What?"

"That set me off," he says. "Like... like you knew exactly who I was."

"But I do," Steve says.

Bucky's withdrawn again, biting his lips.

"You may have known me. 'Bucky.' That kid back in Brooklyn, charming all the dames, but who frenched you in some skeezy tavern. But you don't know me. You don't know what I've done."

"But I do," Steve says gently. "You're Bucky. In here."

His hand moves to Bucky's chest and presses to his heart.

"Copping a feel?" Bucky asks. "At least take me out to dinner first."

Steve smirks and slides his hand down Bucky's body, wrapping around his hip, to grab as much as he can of his butt.

"No," he says. "That's copping a feel."

"Captain America," Bucky replies archly. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"Thanks to you, I do," he smiles sweetly.

Bucky guffaws at this. "It isn't in you yet, Captain. You'll know when it is."

And as he presses against Steve, Steve suddenly knows just what he's talking about. And is absolutely sure that Bucky is correct in his assessment.

It makes his brain go all fuzzy at the idea of what Bucky is sort of jokingly offering to do to him.

"Am I making you hard?" Bucky asks bluntly, snorting.

Steve blushes, feeling his eyebrows peaking. Part of him realizes he should put some space between the two of them, but he can't make himself move away from Bucky.

"I mean... yeah?"

"Damn," Bucky breathes. He sounds surprised. "I sort of... like that."

"I can feel that you do," Steve replies, a bit light-headed at the idea.

Bucky stares at him evenly and then slides his hand down Steve's front, along the curve and arc of every muscle, and then grabs at him through his pants.

"I've never done this with another fella," Bucky says. "I mean... at least not that I can remember."

"That makes two of us," Steve says, breathless.

Bucky retracts his hand, licks along his palm, and then slides it under the waistband of Steve's pants.

"Buck — they're watching," Steve chokes out.

"I know," he replies with a smile. "Doesn't that make it sort of hot?"

And Steve almost cries out just at his very touch, has to bite back a yelp at this way his hand wraps around and is suddenly stroking, roughly, at the way that Bucky's eyes half-lid at this, his mouth stretching with a sly smile.

"Sort of wish I had another hand now, y'know?" he says, jokingly.

"Uh-huh," Steve chokes out.

"Damn, you're hard for me," Bucky laughs lazily. "This isn't going to take much, is it?"

He's going faster now, leaning in to it, and every time he does Steve can feel Bucky's hard press against his thigh and that almost sets him over the edge.

"C'mon, Captain," Bucky purrs.

"Bucky," he whimpers, struggling to remove his pants. They fall to the ground, puddling at his feet.

"Oh, right," Bucky says lazily. "Forgot about that step. Got a little cocky, didn't I?"

Steve groans, and he's not sure if it's in reaction to the bad pun or the pressure he can feel building in his body.

"Fuck," he breathes out.

"Language, Rogers," Bucky says like he's scandalized, but then he's not mad because he presses a kiss to Steve's temple.

"Fuck!" Steve yells, trying to steady the own wild convulsions of his own body.

"I'm really good at this, huh," Bucky crows. And then, in a mock-serious voice: "Are you close, Steve?"

"Yes," Steve says, exhasperated. He would angry, but it just feels _so fucking good_ that he can't even manage to think about how infuriatingly annoying Bucky is being. "Yes, Bucky. Fuck!"

Bucky grins and leans hard against Steve's body, pressing kisses to his neck.

And then his lips, at Steve's ear: "When you come, I want you to say my name. Can you do that? Say my name."

_Oh, oh, oh, oh. Can't complain about much these days..._

That song is still playing on the radio, the little jangly tune and he has every line memorized now and the cameras are on him and the surveillance team is watching and his pants are around his ankles and Bucky's hand is around his cock and he just can't take it anymore...

The song ends. Bucky sighs.

"Alright, next time, we plan for this," he says, wiping the mess off his clothing. And then, a wicked look in his eye: he swirls his finger in it like it's frosting and then licks it off, staring Steve down.

This is it. This is what is going to kill him. Not Nazis, not Hydra, not Chitauri.

Bucky Barnes, licking cum off his finger.

Steve collapses in a heap on the ground.

"Fuck," he mutters.

***

Three days later, Bucky is out of the holding cell, back with his arm, and back at work — arguing with people.

"Memory is a little more simple than we tend to think," Tony is saying.

"But I think it's more of a question—"

Tony cuts him off with a hand wave and pulls Steve over from his corner where he was pretending to read a book. He stands in front of Tony and Bucky, confused.

"Exhibit A," Tony says, and he pulls out his phone.

The same chords come on, the fast drum beat, the guitar.

_Fresh cut grass, one cold beer. Thank the Lord, I am here and now. Here and now._

Tony grins and uses a hand to display a new bulge in Steve's pants like he's Vanna White or something.

"Exhibit B," he says.

Bucky chuckles.

"More like B through J, if you know what I'm talkin' 'bout..."

Steve reddens.

"Like Pavlov's dogs," Tony concludes with a smile.

Steve is sure he's red in the face. But he doesn't complain.

_When your life is great, celebrate the feeling. Celebrate the feeling._


End file.
